


Devil in a Blue Dress

by Deastar



Series: White Collar - Classic Slash Clichés [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You are not 	going undercover as a woman,” says Peter, firmly.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil in a Blue Dress

**Author's Note:**

> All thanks and praise go to my incredibly awesome beta, [](http://laulan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://laulan.livejournal.com/)**laulan** . This fic is part of a set of five stories based on classic slash clichés – in this case, cross-dressing for justice! This fic was written before 1x7 “Free Fall” aired.
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Russian translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/625384) by Elga!
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Chinese translation](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-199893-1-1.html) by Carlfie!

“You are not going undercover as a woman,” says Peter, firmly.

“I’ve done it before,” Neal wheedles, pulling a picture out of his wallet and dropping it on the table in front of Peter.

Peter leans over to get a good look at the face in the headshot and does a double take.

“Holy crap!”

“Hot, right?” Neal asks, lowering his eyes modestly.

“No,” Peter snaps, his mind on other things. He looks back down at the photo and amends, “Yes. I mean, no! But that’s not the point.”

He stabs his index finger toward the picture accusingly.

“I know this woman! I’ve been trying to catch this woman for three years! Leann Manley – she’s wanted in Washington, D.C. for three counts of grand theft auto and one count of shoplifting!”

“Shoplifting?” Neal raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Oh my god,” Peter says, despairingly, lowering his forehead into his hand. “Leann: ‘Neal’ backwards, with an extra ‘n.’ And, ‘Manley,’ hah.”

“Wow. You’re just now getting that, huh?”

Peter glares, and decides that a meaningless exercise of his authority will make him feel better.

“You are not going undercover as a woman,” he repeats.

“As highly as I think of the Bureau’s many talented, attractive and intelligent agents – of either gender – there’s nobody else I’d trust to be able to identify the forged painting,” Neal says, shrugging. “This is what I’m here for – to be your resident expert.”

“In a dress?”

Neal looks taken aback. “You think I should wear a skirt suit? But dresses are in this season!”

Peter lets his head sink despairingly into his hands again. “Not the point,” he moans, knowing that this is a battle he’s already lost. “That’s so very much not the point.”

“You know, Diana told me that what Leacox finds irresistible is luring women away from their dates – and the more possessive the men are, the better.”

“This is not going where I think it’s going,” Peter says out loud, talking to God or the world or karma.

“It really is,” Neal informs him, with a twinkle. “And now I have to go get ready for my big night. See you at 7:30 – and don’t be late. It’s not polite to keep a lady waiting.”

And he strolls out of Peter’s office, whistling “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.”

~*~

Peter’s waiting outside of Leacox’s mansion, carefully watching the guests arriving. He’s early – because he wanted to scope out the security, and his fellow guests, _not_ because he cares what Neal thinks.

He’s compiling a list of attendees – senator going stag, CEO with trophy wife, CEO with trophy husband, legs like you would not believe…

Peter shakes his head back and forth – one of these things is not like the others. He’s supposed to be cataloguing guests, but those are really some legs – the kind that a Humphrey Bogart character would call “gams” – in heels that look like they must be excruciating. He follows them up to the hem of a striking blue silk sheath dress, then skips straight up to the bright blue eyes, which make a fair sally at outshining the dress itself. One of those eyes is winking at him, which—

“Oh, god damn it,” Peter groans, and walks over to the knockout who also happens to be his partner.

“This is the face that launched a thousand sexual identity crises,” Neal murmurs in Peter’s ear. “Or was that stare some kind of secret FBI signal?”

“Nothing I have to say to that is appropriate for a lady’s ears,” Peter mutters.

“Do you like the dress? Elizabeth helped me pick it out.”

Shaking his head, Peter says, “Of course she did.” He starts to march determinedly toward the entrance, but stops when Neal jerks him back with a hand on his suit collar.

“Possessive, remember?” Neal says, with far too much relish, and Peter wraps an arm around his waist and grumbles his way up to the door.

~*~

Neal – or in this case, Leann – is not the most beautiful woman in the room. Although he looks better as a woman than he has any right to, considering his brow ridge, his cleft chin and his spare build, there’s still something a little bit off about Neal, and his features are too strong to compete with the models and actresses who clog the hallways of Leacox’s mansion. Fortunately, Leacox throws a lot of these parties, and he’s used to models and actresses. Peter and Neal are betting their case on the hope that he’s looking for something new.

It’s certainly not hard for Peter to keep up the possessive boyfriend act – Neal may not be the most beautiful woman in the room, but he’s still gorgeous, and Peter tries not to admit how much he enjoys staring down men who try to get too close, or chat too long. His hand doesn’t leave the small of Neal’s back even once.

Neal’s worked his tricks well – the dress is beautifully sewn to give the illusion of curves, and his face is covered with subtle but effective cosmetic flourishes. Oddly, though, the things that Peter finds himself noticing most about this new version of Neal are the things that aren’t actually different – his blazing eyes, complimented by the blue of the dress; his hands, which gracefully articulate his conversation; and, of course, those damn legs.

Something about Neal’s appearance or Peter’s mad dog impression seems to get Leacox’s attention. Peter finds it strangely difficult to watch Neal go off with him, Leacox running his gaze up and down Neal’s body like it’s a piece of meat. It just bothers him to see his partner go into an enclosed space with a suspect, and no backup, Peter tells himself.

Of course, then it all goes to hell – alarms blare, security forces start running around like chickens with their heads cut off, guests scream, and Peter makes a break for Leacox’s bedroom, where he finds Leacox unconscious on the floor and Neal, clearly annoyed as hell, telling off a group of ski-masked intruders.

“You just _had_ to try to steal the painting tonight, didn’t you. And did you even stop to think that other people might have made plans related to said painting – plans which _you_ are interrupting? No,” he says, as the would-be thieves somehow manage to look whipped even through their ski-masks. “No, I see that you did not,” Neal finishes, looking down his nose at the men and pulling off a frighteningly accurate disappointed-schoolteacher impression. Peter finds himself having disturbing flashbacks to Mrs. Setton in the second grade.

“Well,” Neal continues, gesturing grandiosely at the aforementioned painting, “You’re all clearly idiots anyway, because this painting is a fake. An amazing fake, a fake I wish I’d done myself, but a fake nonetheless.”

“Who are you?” one of the thieves asks, as FBI agents in Kevlar start to fill the room – Peter assumes they’ve got the place surrounded.

“I’m his girlfriend,” Neal says, grinning and jerking a thumb toward Peter. “And _you_ are under arrest.”

~*~

“I thought that went well,” Neal says, looking very satisfied, in the car going back to June’s house.

Peter stares. “You judo-chopped the Australian Ambassador into insensibility in his own house,” he says helplessly.

“In heels!” Neal exclaims, as proudly as a kid showing off an A+ on a spelling test. “And, to be fair,” he adds, in a conciliatory tone, “he _was_ trying to have his way with me.”

“He _what_?!” Peter starts to turn the car around, with the express purpose of seeing to it that Leacox gets judo-chopped into insensibility at least once more before the clock hits midnight, but Neal puts his foot down and insists that Peter drop him at the house before doing anything else.

“I’m fine,” he tells Peter firmly. “Judo-chopped, remember?” Neal laughs, and shoots Peter a sideways look. “The little chivalry monster in your head does know I’m not really a woman, right?”

Peter mumbles something even he doesn’t understand.

When he arrives at June’s, Neal asks him to wait inside – it turns out that some of “Leann’s” jewelry actually belongs to Elizabeth, and Neal wants to make sure it gets back to her tonight. Outside Neal’s bedroom, Peter yells through the door, “You sure you don’t want me to beat him up?”

The door opens, and Neal steps out, looking like himself again, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, with all of the makeup wiped off.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he demurs, depositing a small box in Peter’s hand – Elizabeth’s jewelry, presumably. His fingers sweep accidentally across Peter’s palm when he pulls away – then again, Peter thinks, with Neal, you never know what’s an accident and what’s not.

“You looked… gorgeous tonight,” Peter admits, and Neal smiles, leaning a hip against the doorframe, slouching a few inches further into Peter’s personal space.

“But I like you better like this,” Peter adds, and Neal says, “Thanks,” softly, with a smaller smile, a little shy, and somehow Peter doesn’t think this one is a performance.

“My knight in shining, ten-year-old, out-of-style, off-the-rack cheap suits,” he murmurs, with his blue eyes laughing.

Peter snorts. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, M. Butterfly.”

“Un bel dí, Agent Burke,” Neal murmurs, and Peter laughs.

“Un bel dí vedremo,” Peter quotes, then translates. “One fine day, we’ll see.”

“We will,” Neal says, his voice low and full of promise.

“Good night, Agent Burke.”

“Good night, Neal.”

Peter walks away down the hall, and when he hears the door close behind him, he allows himself a grin.


End file.
